


Body And Blood

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Bleed So Pretty: A Collection of Fight!lock Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Church Sex, Dirty Talk, Face Punching, Face Slapping, Fight Club - Freeform, Fight!lock, Fighting Kink, Filthy, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Punching, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scratching, kicking, rough anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:24:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1573769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock's third fight-club meeting results in fleeing barefoot to the nearest unlocked door. Is nothing sacred?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body And Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [terebi_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terebi_me/gifts), [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Кровь и плоть](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521145) by [ph_craftlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ph_craftlove/pseuds/ph_craftlove)
  * Inspired by [Cutmen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1426756) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



> I don't know where some of the things John says here came from. I may have been possessed by a demon? Shocking, even to this atheist.
> 
> For terebi_me, who enthusiastically commented on "Cutmen" that I must "Do another one!" So I have.
> 
> For jinglebell, whose bookmark comments on "Cutmen" ("...spectacularly testosterone-charged, crazy-blokes fight SEX. ...so, so sexy and unlike anything else I've read in the BBC Sherlock fandom") were so delightful to me I laughed out loud and clapped my little hands!

 

 

Ten lines, two columns of pseudonyms and initials. Sherlock printed “SH” in the last empty space. No sooner had he set down the pen on the table than another hand picked it up and started crossing out, drawing arrows, making notes, rearranging the dance card. Sherlock shifted his gaze from the frantic scribbling upward until it landed on a familiar profile.

A surly-looking suburban dad standing nearby demanded to know just what the hell he was thinking of, messing with the list, and John started, “He’s—“ he cleared his throat, pointed to Sherlock’s initials, which were now lined up beside his own. “That’s mine. That’s my fight.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock backed him up. “He owes me one.”

John looked annoyed, huffed a breath out his nose. “That’s not how I remember it,” he said in a low, threatening voice.

The grumpy dad glowered but kept quiet.

Sherlock raked his gaze up and down John’s frame from head to foot as if that alone could wound him. John licked his lips, subtly squared his shoulders, lifted his chest a bit.

“What brings you?” John asked, partway between casual and challenging. About thirty feet away in the ring, a winner was being declared after a tap-out.

Sherlock stepped closer to John, not wanting to raise his voice. “Just finished a case. You can forget signing up for Zumba classes with Annmarie; she and her employees have been arrested for prostitution.”

John couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Dreadful little town,” Sherlock muttered. “And it’s not even Edinburgh.” Upon their last meeting, Sherlock had deduced that John split his time between London and somewhere else a four to five hours’ journey by train; he’d ventured Edinburgh.

“I have a cousin; he’s a priest at St Columba’s. He told me they needed GPs here, and I need to work.” John shrugged. “So:  Berwick-upon-Tweed, three weeks out of the month.”

Another bout began with a shout of “Fight!” and an explosion of loud encouragement from the crowd of men.

Sherlock said. “Thanks for the note.”

John shrugged again. Their last encounter had ended with John at Sherlock’s claustrophobic, slightly smelly flat in Baker Street, suturing the lip he’d split punching Sherlock during a fight in a car park. Once John had snipped off the last bit of thread, Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom and shut the door without another word to John, no sympathy for the ruined knees of his trousers, not even a syllable of gratitude for John’s willing mouth after they fought (best two of three; John threw it). Not knowing what else to do, John scribbled the password for the Berwick club—along with the words “Not Edinburgh btw”—on the back of an unopened, urgent-looking utility bill and slid it under the bedroom door, then left.

“Kind of hoped to cross your path again,” John offered in a nonchalant tone. “Wasn’t sure it was welcome.” He nodded toward Sherlock’s left eye; the white of it was shot through with traceries of angry red, and the surrounding tissue was swollen, beginning to bruise in the hollow beneath the lower lashes. “That from working your case?”

Sherlock nodded slightly. “Immediately thereafter followed an unfortunate accident off a pier.”

John grunted out a laugh.

“How’s the lip? Good scar?”

Sherlock ducked his face close to John’s, tugged his lower lip outward and down a bit for John to inspect. Briefly, his tongue-tip slid across the pad of his finger while he was sure John’s attention was focused there: an invitation, a promise. “You’re an artist, as well as a craftsman,” Sherlock offered, leaning slightly away.

John lowered his voice. “You bleed so pretty I was reluctant to fix it.”

Sherlock growled, low in his throat, but John heard it.

They turned shoulder to shoulder, watching the ongoing fight between the heads and shoulders of the few rows of men in front of them. A working stiff, fisherman-type, was punching the thick, soft face of a huge fella with tattoos of nude men up and down his ribcage. John folded his arms across his chest. His gaze never left the fight going on straight ahead of him as he said—a half-step below his normal volume—“And, of course, I still want to fuck you. Gagging for it, in fact.” A pause; John swallowed hard. “But you probably already knew that.”

Sherlock hummed, affirmative but languid. “Guess we’ll see,” he said mildly. “Winner take all?”

John set his jaw. “Oh, I intend to.”

The tattooed man had forced the working stiff into a choke hold and forced him to tap out. The glowering suburban dad consulted the list and called out, “JW and SH! Last bout of the night, lads. JW and SH.”

The line of sand that described the ring was quickly swept back into place as John and Sherlock started to remove their shirts and shoes. Some of the regulars were sizing up Sherlock, the striking angular thinness of him, and their faces revealed that they imagined he would not be much of a contender—a pretty face like his, even with that shiner, was the sort its owner would tend to overprotect, and why not? John noticed shaking heads, chortled laughter. But John had fought Sherlock down in London, twice now, and he knew not to underestimate him.

John, barefoot, bare-chested, stepped into the ring, cracking his knuckles, tossing his neck to loosen it.

“Easy one, mate,” someone offered. John was staring at the floor, but he smiled.

And then all Hell broke loose.

Police in helmets and Kevlar jackets streaming through the door, everyone shouting, running, hitting the ground one after the next as the cops kneeled on their backs, zip-tied their wrists.

John’s mind was a slow-motion blank but his body knew precisely what needed doing. He grabbed his coat, spotted Sherlock’s long, naked back and stood behind him. Sherlock was flashing a badge and shouting, “Metropolitan Police!” Cops parted around him like water around a stone, on to the next man.

Sherlock turned, grabbed John by the wrist. “Which way out?”

John ran to the far edge of the room, shouldered open a fire door, and lead Sherlock up a narrow flight of stairs two at a time; they emerged through another door at street level. John jerked his head to one side. “Over here,” he said, and they bolted down the alley—not far—crossed it;  John fumbled with a key in a lock momentarily, then they both fell inside. John pushed the door shut behind them.

“Gambling raid,” Sherlock huffed out, panting. John was feeling along the walls for light switches.

“Fucking idiots,” John agreed, then scoffed, “Gambling.”

He found the light, flicked it on.

“Oh, now. . .” Sherlock marveled. “Not possible.”

“I told you my cousin’s a priest,” John offered, by way of explanation. They were standing in a small foyer and visible through a doorway to their right was the sacristy of a church, one wall hung with images of Jesus and some saints, against the opposite wall the great wooden clothes press where the priests stored vestments in wide, shallow drawers. John walked in, tossed his jacket on a chair. “You’re not a religious man, I assume.” He paced off the central space, started to crack his knuckles again.

Sherlock snorted out a laugh, emptied his trousers pockets of the badge he’d wielded, his wristwatch, a shiny gold clip full of cash. He dropped the lot of it atop the long, elegant wooden press, stepped closer to John.

“Winner take all, I think you said,” John muttered, and raised his chest. He stepped forward; Sherlock held his ground.

“Indeed.”

John’s fist shot out and caught Sherlock across the jaw; Sherlock’s shoulders and torso followed his head as it turned. John launched himself at Sherlock, arms around his back, shoulder dug into his chest, trying to knock him off balance. Sherlock answered with a series of left-handed punches to the side of John’s face and head, a quick jab into his ribs with the right. John held on, grunting, pushing. Sherlock quickly jerked one leg backwards, then his knee crashed up into John’s gut, taking the wind out. John let go, collapsed to hands and knees on the floor. Gasping, he scrambled backward, gathering himself to stand.

Sherlock chopped the side of his hand against the base of John’s neck, but John managed to swerve away from a follow-up blow. They circled each other, shoulders heaving with labored breath.

“Good start,” Sherlock taunted. “It ends on your knees.”

“Like hell,” John answered, and swung a wide right toward Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock blocked it with a raised forearm, sent John slightly off-balance. Taking advantage, Sherlock ducked low and rushed forward, jamming his shoulder against John’s collarbone and shoving him backward. John’s back hit the floor and he let out a heavy grunt on impact. Straddling John’s chest, Sherlock pinned one wrist beneath his knee, and jabbed at John’s cheek, three rapid-fire punches that split the skin just below John’s eye.

With his free hand, John swung hard at the side of Sherlock’s torso, knocking him aside long enough for John to wriggle out from beneath Sherlock and regain his feet. He rubbed away the stream of blood trickling from the cut on his cheek with his knuckles, leaving a red smear toward his ear. Sherlock was slow to rise, each breath a moan. John watched through narrowed eyes, hung back, waited.

It was a feint, of course, and Sherlock landed a hard kick with the side of his foot against John’s shin, doubling John over, instinct guiding his hand to reach for the source of the pain and rub it away. Sherlock roughly grabbed John’s jaw and pushed upward and back with his full weight, bending John’s back against the sacristy press. He leaned in close to John’s face, brought his mouth close to John’s ear. He panted a few heaving breaths, then: “Say it again,” he demanded in a raspy growl. “That you want to fuck me.”

John grasped at Sherlock’s thin wrist, tried to pull Sherlock’s hand from his face. John’s other hand went for the front of Sherlock’s trousers, fingers fumbling for the hook, the button, the zip.

“I’m _going_ to fuck you,” John corrected, through clenched teeth. “And you’re going to beg me not to stop.”

Sherlock bit down on John’s earlobe and didn’t let go, making John gasp.

“Shame, shame, Doctor,” Sherlock whispered. “We’re in a church.” Sherlock pinched John’s nipple, twisted it far past the point of pleasure.

“Do I care we’re in a fucking church?” John huffed. “I’d fuck you on god’s grave.”

Sherlock slapped John’s hand away from his fly with his right, socked John in the chest with his left, then took a giant step backward, sinking down into a bent-knee stance with fists raised, defending. John roared and rushed forward, arms extended to shove Sherlock back by the shoulders. Sherlock shifted his weight, and John’s hand skidded wildly across the sweat-sheened skin of his upper chest and shoulder. They both lost balance and ended up in a tangle, grappling on the floor, each trying to gain the upper hand. Sherlock’s fingers dug into John’s neck, the edges of his well-manicured fingernails cutting tiny half-moons into the skin of his throat; John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, made a fist, yanked hard enough to hear something in Sherlock’s neck softly—but distinctly—pop.

It ended with John straddling Sherlock’s waist, catching Sherlock’s thin wrists in the tight circles of his gripping fists. Sherlock continued to struggle, kneed John in the back; his eyes were wild, his pupils wide black holes centered in the pale irises.

“You _want_ me to fuck you,” John grunted out, wrestling with Sherlock’s flailing arms until he pinned his wrists to the floor on either side of his head. “You want me to win so I can shove my cock in you and make you whine.”

“I don’t lose,” Sherlock snarled.

“Not yet, anyway,” John replied with a humourless half-smile playing at his lips. “You’re not even bleeding.”

All at once he let go of Sherlock’s wrists and landed a heavy punch beside his already blackened eye. The skin over Sherlock’s cheekbone split—a wound nearly matching the one John was already wearing—and a rivulet of blood appeared. John let out a deep moan, and then they were grappling again, punching, blocking, slapping, fingernails puncturing skin, teeth pressed into soft flesh of necks, shoulders, wrists, lips. . .And then they were kissing, open-mouthed, tongues thrusting, breath at first held and then, when they could hold it no longer, heaving.

They ended lying chest-to-chest on their sides, and John’s hand went again for the fasteners on Sherlock’s trousers. This time Sherlock let him open them, his teeth raking harshly against John’s jaw all the while. John spit into his palm, shoved all four fingers into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock gagged, and licked. John hummed his approval.

He found Sherlock’s cock, hard and hot, and dragged his grip roughly along it from base to crown, then back again, and Sherlock groaned, and bit John’s chin, and gasped. John stroked him a few more times, felt Sherlock’s body softening slightly against him. Suddenly, John moved to kneel, soundly slapping Sherlock’s face, raising a red welt in the shape of his palm across Sherlock’s cheek.

“Up,” he ordered, rising to stand. Sherlock started to rise, not fast enough for John’s liking, so John yanked him by the upper arm, smacked his face again. “Get up now, gorgeous, I’m going to make you cry.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock snarled, and pulled away from John, but he got to his feet as he was told. Before he had even pulled himself to his full height, John’s hands were on him, maneuvering him, trying to bend him over the press. Sherlock fought against him, slammed an elbow into John’s chest, knocking him off-balance momentarily. John twisted one of Sherlock’s arms high up behind his back, grabbed him by the hair at the back of his head, smashed the side of Sherlock’s face down on the top of the press and held him there.

“You got what you wanted last time,” John scolded. “My turn.”

“You lost on purpose. You _wanted_ to suck me off,” Sherlock spat, his cheek deformed against the cool, smooth wood of the press as John held his head down. “Down on your knees for me.” Sherlock’s voice was triumphant. “You loved it. Swallowing my cum.”

John sank his teeth roughly into the back of Sherlock’s neck, pressing harder and harder until Sherlock let out a shout, then ran the flat of his tongue over the bitten spot. He worked his teeth and tongue across Sherlock’s neck, his shoulder, his upper back, biting down on the protruding knobs of his vertebrae. Sherlock, face still flat against the press, huffing out labored breaths, reached for his own cock and started to stroke; his other hand reached for John’s head and neck, bony fingers digging in where they could, leaving tiny, stinging scratches here and there. John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, tried to thread his fingers in between Sherlock’s, encouraging Sherlock to jerk himself more violently.

“Looks like I win,” John muttered against Sherlock’s throat. “Tap out if you agree.”

Sherlock let out a guttural groan of angry frustration and shoved John’s hand away from his cock. John no longer held him down, but Sherlock stayed bent over the press, one arm wrapped nearly around his head, bearing some weight on his elbow. He slapped his palm down on the wood. Once. Twice. John let out a satisfied hum, began to work his teeth and tongue down Sherlock’s pale, bite-mark covered back—nipping and gnashing at his shoulder, the knobs of his spine, the soft flesh of his side, the jut of his hip—making Sherlock quiver and jump with each new assault. John stomped on Sherlock’s trousers where they sat in a puddle around his ankles, and with his other foot kicked at the inside of Sherlock’s calf to make him lift his foot out of the trousers, spread his legs far apart.

“I’m waiting,” John reminded Sherlock, in a tone of petulant triumph. He sank to his knees behind Sherlock, dug his bottom teeth into the tender flesh where Sherlock’s buttock and thigh met. Sherlock’s whole body jumped a little at the shock of pain, and John steadied himself with a hand on each of Sherlock’s thighs. John rubbed his tongue harshly across the newly-bitten spot; when he sat back on his heels he could see the arched pattern of his teeth, the skin reddening as the blood rushed in.

John smacked the side of Sherlock’s thigh and the sound of skin on skin echoed off the high ceiling and bare walls of the sacristy. “Tap out so I can lick your asshole,” he ordered, and smacked Sherlock again. The slap on the already-tender spot made Sherlock whine. “Tap out so I can get my fingers inside you.” One last resounding smack in the same spot and Sherlock drew in his breath sharply. “Tap out so I can shove my cock in you. It’s big; I know you’ll like it.”

Sherlock let out a furious growl, then pounded the smooth top of the press with the side of his fist—once, twice, three times—and John let out a grateful moan as he slipped his fingers into the cleft of Sherlock’s ass, pulled apart to make space, and sunk his tongue in, seeking the tight knot of his asshole and roughly stroking across and around it. Sherlock’s thighs trembled; he huffed out a surprised-sounding noise like a sob and rose up on his toes. John moaned appreciatively, worked his lips and tongue against Sherlock’s most sensitive skin, licked sloppy concentric circles, depositing saliva, pressing hard with his tongue-tip, meeting resistance.

John leaned back on his heels again, and the absence of his moist, hot tongue drew a frustrated whine from Sherlock. John reached into his back pocket and withdrew two foil-wrapped packets. He tucked them both gently between his teeth for safe keeping while he quickly unfastened his trousers and withdrew his throbbing, aching cock, oozing creamy fluid at the tip.

“I like the way you taste,” John said, his voice a low rasp, his breath ghosting across the back of Sherlock’s thighs. He raked his teeth along the outside of Sherlock’s hip, then used the thin, sharp edges of the foil wrappers to trace long, thin scratches across the skin of Sherlock’s buttock. Sherlock gasped. John erased the sting of the scratches with a sharp, open-handed slap. He tore open one foil packet with his teeth, spat the torn edge away, and quickly unrolled a condom down his length, pausing to stroke himself a few times while his other hand parted Sherlock’s cheeks so he could dip his tongue in again, tickle Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock made a most gratifying sound, and reached for his own cock, which was oozing pre-cum enough to slick his hand as he began to pull. “Mmm. . .”John encouraged, and rolled Sherlock’s balls in his hand for a moment, “That’s lovely.” He ripped into the second packet with his teeth, squeezed out a generous dollop of clear gel smelling vaguely like toothpaste. He swirled it around, thumb against fingertips, then rubbed a bit along the surface of the condom. “I’m going to put my fingers inside you and you’re going to tell me how much you like it,” John said then, in a tone vaguely threatening, the “or else” solidly implied.

Sherlock moaned assent, slumped slightly more forward across the sacristy press, resting more of his chest atop it to take weight off his bent legs. John’s hands were not gentle as they spread Sherlock’s rear open and he began to press his slippery fingertip against Sherlock’s opening. He leaned close, shoved his tongue beside his finger, which made Sherlock catch his breath loudly. John spit, adding more wetness, until Sherlock’s skin and John’s fingers were slick and ready, and in one slow, steady movement, John pushed one finger inside him.

Sherlock whimpered and his legs shook. John grinned and murmured, “Lovely. So tight. I’ll need much more room if I’m going to fuck you hard and deep like I want to.” John slid his finger back until it was barely inside Sherlock, added a second fingertip and probed at his hole, coaxing it wider. “Let me in, gorgeous. I know you want to.”

Sherlock growled, sounding at once indignant and hungry, all the while yanking hard at his cock. “Fuck you,” he muttered, but it was half-hearted and broke at the end. John pushed both fingers in, slow but steady, then rocked them partway back, then in again, and Sherlock bit down on a strangled cry.

“I like the sounds you make,” John told him. “Make more.”

John pumped his fingers in and out rhythmically, felt Sherlock’s body relaxing around him, the slippery lube easing the way. He added a third finger, pulsed in and out, just a bit, and Sherlock was trying hard not to make a sound, biting his lips, ragged gasps escaping now and then despite himself. John reached for Sherlock’s wrist and yanked his hand away from his cock. “Don’t get too far ahead of me, now,” he scolded, and pushed his fingers in a bit further, held them there, then began to twist his wrist in half-circles. “More of those pretty noises, please,” he said plainly. “Or you could say my name. You’ll be screaming it, soon enough.”

Sherlock was biting his own wrist, the heel of his hand, spittle flying out as he gasped hard, trying not to moan or cry out. John withdrew his fingers, rose to stand. He continued stroking and working at Sherlock’s opening as he leaned over Sherlock’s back, bit down suddenly—forcefully—on his shoulder. Sherlock let out a shout.

“Mm. Better,” John said. He worked the tips of his fingers inside Sherlock again, standing hip-to-hip beside him now. He reached for Sherlock’s hand and guided it to his own cock. Sherlock resisted, tried to pull his hand back, refused to unball his fist. “Ah, I see,” John said with a smirking half-smile. “You’d rather be surprised.” He thrust three fingers into Sherlock’s ass as hard as he could then, and Sherlock raised his head, gasping. Sherlock allowed John to guide his hand, and wrapped his long fingers around John’s generous girth, stroked roughly along his length, then back again toward the base. John thrust his hips forward to meet Sherlock’s movements. He slid his fingers out of Sherlock’s ass, teased circles around the hole with one firmly pressing fingertip.

“My god,” Sherlock moaned, and turned his head to meet John’s gaze, which was steely. Sherlock’s face was high pink, his lips vaguely swollen from biting down on them, his pupils blown wide and black.

“Pretty little hand,” John allowed. “I’d like to stomp on it.” Sherlock closed his eyes, grunted, twisted his wrist as he tugged at John’s cock, his fingers sliding easily over the lubed condom. John grabbed Sherlock’s forearm, yanked it upward, arranging Sherlock with his weight resting on his forearms on the top of the press. Sherlock was surprisingly compliant. John leaned close to his ear. “Gonna fuck you now, gorgeous,” he breathed.

Sherlock reared up suddenly and caught John in a chokehold with his left arm, and with his right fist landed a heavy punch directly on John’s nose. There was a sickening crack and John let out a loud groan. Blood instantly streamed from both his nostrils. Sherlock let him go and John stumbled backward, covering his face with both hands. He planted his feet, heaved a few deep breaths to settle himself, and when he looked up again, Sherlock had resumed his position, bent at the waist, legs spread apart, waiting.

“Point taken,” John said with a grunted, humourless half-laugh. He snorted back a mouthful of blood and spit it carelessly onto the floor. Sherlock dropped his head onto his crisscrossed forearms. John stepped behind him, his feet between Sherlock’s, and spit in his hand to get the lube going again. He stroked his cock up and down a few times, pressed it between Sherlock’s cheeks, guiding with his fingers, pressing the crown against Sherlock’s opening. John’s nose bled in warm, oozing rivulets down his lip, riding the creases beside his mouth down onto his chin. He swiped at the blood with the back of his hand.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, then exhaled long and low. John grasped Sherlock’s hips, digging his fingers in, and pushed into him; they both groaned like animals. John pressed down on Sherlock’s lower back, shifting his position, and then backed his cock out a bit, then in much further, and Sherlock sang out a whining moan, rocked his head back and forth against his folded arms.

“Jesus, gorgeous,” John huffed, “So tight.” John’s face ached, his cock was throbbing inside Sherlock’s ass; he sensed Sherlock’s body wanting to refuse him, waited to feel the shift from resistance into readiness.

Sherlock raised his head, looked over his shoulder. “I thought you were going to fuck me,” he said, his half-smile and condescending, bored tone belied by the sweat plastering his fringe to his forehead and the duskiness around his eyes. He licked his lips, raised his eyebrows.

It was more prompting than John required; he thrust hard into Sherlock’s ass then, pumping his hips forward and back, holding Sherlock’s pelvis in place with a firm grip, fingertips raising bruises in the crease between Sherlock’s abdomen and thigh. John grunted with the effort, and Sherlock began to moan encouragement, his knees weakening, his long fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface of the press.

John landed a heavy smack on the side of Sherlock’s hip, and Sherlock hissed, “Oh, yes. . .”

“Hurts, does it?” John grunted out, and worked his cock faster in and out of Sherlock’s hole, which was stretched to its limit around him, the friction and the lube working to make utterly filthy sucking, slurping  sounds as he moved. “But you like that. When it hurts.”

Sherlock let out a strangled-sounding cry and reached down for his prick, began to stroke in urgent rhythm. John shoved in up to the hilt, paused, raked both hands hard down Sherlock’s back, leaving angry red trails in the wake of his fingernails’ raggedly bitten edges. Sherlock rolled and shifted beneath his hands, rocking his pelvis at odd angles, and John caught his breath, sucked air, and went back to fast, hard fucking, his eyes screwed shut, his breath heaving out in short, sharp grunts of exertion.

Sherlock cried out, then: a long, low “Oh,” rising in pitch at the end, and came copiously, his cum shooting onto the floor, the drawer-faces of the press, his own hand. John pulled himself back, nearly out of Sherlock, then in again—slowing his pace—feeling every ridge and thrum inside Sherlock’s tight asshole. John screwed shut his eyes, pushed in hard, and came with a shout, his legs nearly giving out beneath him as he shuddered and collapsed forward across Sherlock’s long, pale back, now dotted with spots of crimson where John’s fingernails had slit his skin. He sighed mightily, backed out his still mostly-hard cock, which made Sherlock gasp. John peeled off the spent condom, flung it aside into a shadowed corner of the room, and tugged up his trousers, tucking himself inside and zipping up quickly, then collapsing onto a nearby wooden folding chair. He leaned back, legs extended, let his head loll back so he was staring at the ceiling. Blood from his probably-broken nose ran down the back of his throat.

Sherlock turned and slumped straight down to the floor, his back against the press’s drawer-fronts, one knee raised, the other leg thrust out in front of him. His chest heaved until he caught his breath.

“Your cousin the priest’s going to want those keys back from you when he comes across that condom,” Sherlock said, at last.

John cleared a throatful of blood and spat it onto the floor. He didn’t reply.

Instead: “Where you staying?”

Sherlock shifted his trousers, which were wrapped around one calf, and slid his other leg inside them, raised his hips and began to fasten them.

“I was going to take a late train. Imagine I’ve missed it by now.”  He touched two fingertips to his bleeding cheekbone, muttered a quiet, “Ow.”  Then: “The shirt I won’t miss, but that was a really good pair of shoes got left behind.”

John couldn’t help but smile. He reached to where he’d left his jacket on another nearby chair, tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it in one hand, then got quickly to his feet and started to shrug on the coat. John was already starting for the door.

“Come on, then,” John said casually, hand poised at the light switch. “It’s a quick walk to mine.” John raised his gaze, face blood-stained, bruises blooming on his chest and arms, hands aching.

Sherlock’s hand was in the inside pocket of John’s jacket. When he withdrew it, he was holding John’s pistol. He raised an eyebrow. “Quite a bit we don’t know about each other,” Sherlock commented.

John shrugged. “Reckon we know enough,” was the reply. He jerked his head toward the alley door. Sherlock tucked the pistol back inside John’s coat, and followed John out into the night.

 

-END-

**Author's Note:**

> fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr.com for fight-y goodness and related bloodsport.  
> PoppyAlexander-fic.tumblr.com for other fic updates and things that catch my fancy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Body and Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367500) by [Holly (HHarris)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HHarris/pseuds/Holly)




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